


~ Night of Masks ~

by Spiced_Wine



Series: Summerland [4]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Couple of uses of the f-word, Gen, Maglor (Tolkien) Through History, Murder but not graphic, Undercover Missions, Venezia | Venice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-09 10:20:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17999981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiced_Wine/pseuds/Spiced_Wine
Summary: Maglor, in his persona of Mark Lowry, is being tailed to Venice. Vanimórë, following information received, is concerned about the nature of the tail, and decides to go to Venice — during theCarnevale.





	~ Night of Masks ~

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Narya (Narya_Flame)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narya_Flame/gifts).



  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

**~ Night of Masks ~**

 

 

 

 

 

 

~ ‘A matter of interest has come to my attention,’ said the grey-flecked, upright man over lunch. ‘Thought it might be of some concern to you.’ He spoke quietly with a cultured American accent. In fact he was a long-time _habitué_ of Washington who had spent much of the last twenty years flying between capital cities.

‘Indeed?’

The restaurant was small and exclusive, and the two often met there, it being situated almost half way between London and Devon. The owner greeted them with pleasure, himself ushered them to a table in a discreet alcove and left a menu that both knew was so eye-wateringly expensive there were no prices. If one had to ask the price of the meals here, they were not the kind of clientele the _Rondel_ would welcome.

‘Your...er...secretary said she would get in touch with you. I do wish you were more easily contactable.’ Shrewd brown eyes behind frameless glasses surveyed Vanimórë who looked back unblinkingly from behind his own screen of dark contact lenses. They would last about four hours at the most before the colour of his own eyes burned through, so he tended to use them for short meetings.  
‘I am here, Howard,’ he pointed out. ‘And as you know, my er...secretary is most reliable.’ He poured Sauvignon Blanc into their glasses.

The gentleman shrugged, turned his attention back to his plate. He forked a mouthful and ate, evincing almost sybaritic pleasure at the taste. Dabbing his mouth with a napkin, he reached for a briefcase and slid out a brown envelope. He never, as Vanimórë knew, used cellphones or iPads when they met. The encryptions that fenced his devices around were technically the most secure in the world, but Howard said that there was no security that could not be breached, not these days.

Vanimórë drew out the pictures as his companion continued to eat. The _Rondel’s_ cuisine was justly famous.

‘Who took these?’

‘One of our people. Very experienced.’

A street, snow, street lamps, pretty houses, colourful storefronts, the blur of car headlights.  
‘Vermont.’

And now in quick succession images of a man walking. He was dressed for the cold, but there was a suggestion that it did not trouble him overmuch: his long, dark coat was unbuttoned, the scarf loose. Dark hair tumbled from under a hat. His face was pale as a cut pearl. Vanimórë had always found it interesting that even a camera could not see through the glamour, but with that firmly in place, still Maglor Fëanorion was too astonishingly beautiful to walk the streets of a Mortal town. He looked remote, troubled, too much like the face of the man Vanimórë had seen in Barad-dûr.

 _Maglor, once, for a while, a king, always a prince, a warrior, now adrift in a world of Men who do not remember, could not believe and cannot understand. Well, if all goes as I plan, thou shalt not be alone for long._  
Some paces behind him, well-muffled up, walked another man. It was hard to see his face between the pulled-up scarf and the woollen hat tugged low, but his eyes were visible, dark and fixed.

Other pictures followed: a coffee shop, a car park, a gas station, each showing the man following Maglor. In the last few images, it was clear that Maglor was perfectly aware he was being tailed; it was in the set of his shoulders, the watchfulness in the silver eyes, the sense of a panther coiling itself to spring. What might have happened was anyone’s guess, because the operative artistically stalled his car directly across the gas station exit, blocking the tail, who tried to back up the way he had come — and rammed another vehicle. The large, muscled man who got out was clearly furious.

‘But here’s something strange.’ Howard pointed. ‘This local guy, he’s mad, spoiling for a fight, and you can’t blame him. Look.’

With the attention shifted from him, the operative was able to snap off a few more pictures. In the first, the big man’s face was twisted with anger, mouth wide as he yelled at the idiot who had caused the accident.  
In the second, his expression had melted into quite something else: confusion and fear. The tail had lifted his hand to the man’s chest. On one finger, a ring glowed gold in the light. Vanimórë’s eyes narrowed. It could be a wedding ring, of course, but...  
  
‘Whatever he said or did, big guy deflates.’ And indeed the next pictures showed him turning away, getting back in his damaged vehicle. The offender turned back to the blocking car.  
  
‘An off duty cop was going by, offered to try and start the ‘stalled’ car. It started fine, naturally, but it gave Mr Lowry time to get away. The police wanted to speak to the guy who caused the accident but — and no-one saw this — he vanished. Must have slipped away in the dark, I guess.’  
  
‘His vehicle?’ Vanimórë asked.  
  
Howard’s mouth thinned. ‘Rented, under the name of John Doe. Or near enough. John Smith from Detroit. Paid cash at some down-at-heel rental company in the city who didn’t look too hard at background checks.’ He shrugged philosophically. ‘The car was nothing much, reliable enough, and Mr. Smith offered a good enough incentive that they’re shedding no tears. But another odd thing: The employee who arranged the rental’s disappeared, just didn’t show up for work. Single guy, no kids. No-one in his house — his girlfriend had a key and reported him missing. No clothes packed, no sign anything went down in his apartment, and no transactions on his credit or debit cards.’  
  
Vanimórë lifted his eyes from the prints. ‘He will turn up. Or his body will. These are quite thorough people.’  
  
‘Tell me about it,’ Howard said morosely. ‘Anyhow, Mark Lowry booked into a hotel in Burlington using Amex travellers cheques and under a different name, and then took a flight via John F. Kennedy to Rome. From there he went to Venice. I assume he was being cautious, as the whole trip took a few days. He hired a car in Rome.’  
  
‘No further sightings of his tail?’  
  
‘A man fitting his description — our people checked the photos and there’s no doubt — flew from Boston under the name Jason Lord. He flew to Rome, and then down to Venice.’ Flicking through the photos, he passed some over. The man still wore his scarf around nose and mouth, as well he might; Boston had been experiencing bitter cold, but the eyes were a match.  
  
‘Youngish man, few lines around the eyes, and quite fit by the look of him. Yes, he’s the same one.’ Vanimórë lifted his brows. ‘Your people have been busy. And so have _they._ I don’t like the fact they know where Mr Lowry is.’  
  
‘Quite. yes. Now, the big guy at the gas station?’ Howard pushed aside his plate. ‘He’s in hospital — total breakdown with no previous indicators of it according to his wife, no history of drug use except a little weed, a few beers, nothing on his medical records except high blood pressure. Nothing showed up in blood-work. He’s hearing voices, screaming.’  
  
‘Now that,’ Vanimórë drawled, ‘is very interesting. Can you find out exactly what he’s saying?’  
  
Howard withdrew some paperwork. ‘Read for yourself. Mainly he’s seeing _eyes._ , flames. The voices are in some strange language.’  
  
‘Hmm.’  
  
‘We keep a close eye on Mark Lowry, as you know,’ Howard continued. ‘He’d come down from Maine, before the snow started. I think he picked up the tail there. But in general, Mr. Lowry requires no surveillance; he doesn’t break the law. It was sheer luck one of our ops was in Vermont.’  
  
‘Luck,’ Vanimórë repeated. ‘Of course.’ He smiled. ‘Desert? Cheeseboard?’  
  
‘Coffee and the cheeseboard I think. So I take it you don’t think it luck? Come on Mr Lucien Steele, throw me a bone, here. Just a small one.’  
  
Vanimórë shook his head. ‘Pointless to speculate at this stage.’  
  
Howard threw his napkin disgustedly on the table.  
  
So Mr. Lowry has taken a bolt to Venice. At _Carnevale_. All those masks.’ Vanimórë considered. ‘Not his preferred milieu, those crowds. I wonder, is he likely to remain in the seclusion of Torcello, an island where he can easily be found, if he senses anything? Or will he judge it better to mingle? I cannot imagine he wants any...undesirables to find his house.’  
  
‘There’s no sign of anyone shadowing his house, not so far.’  
  
They fell silent as the waiting staff drifted over to clear the table and bring coffee and the cheeseboard. When they had gone, slicing a white Stilton sprinkled with gold, Howard said, ‘You think you can get into the Gritti? At Carnival? Shall I make a call or two?’  
  
‘I’m sure I can manage,’ Vanimórë said blithely, and Howard muttered: ‘I just bet you can,’ under his breath.

‘Anyhow, by the time I get there we may find this mysterious tail floating face down in the lagoon. Mr. Lowry should never be underestimated, which is one of the reasons he keeps a low profile. You may not have seen it, but your predecessors and their counterparts know _exactly_ how dangerous he is. As do I’  
  
Howard stopped chewing for a moment, then carefully swallowed the mouthful. ‘It’s on record,’ he admitted.  
  
‘And a great deal more is not. I am not at all sure he’s running away.’  
  
Howard’s eyes widened. ‘You think he’s luring the tail to Venice?’  
  
A shrug. ‘Why did he draw the trip out over several days? How long did he stay at Burlington?’  
  
‘Over 48 hours,’ Howard said slowly, frowning.  
  
‘How many flights a week from Burlington to JFK?’  
  
‘Enough. Or he could have chartered a private plane if he was in a real hurry.’  
  
‘Yes, it could be caution, but it could also be that he was waiting for his tail to show himself again. People like Mark Lowry,’ he met Howard’s eyes. ‘do not run away. Trust me on this. What he does do is try not to draw attention. Hence his using the opportunity to leave the gas station quickly. But Venice is his home ground, insofar as anywhere is. And what better time to cause someone to disappear in Venice than during _Carnevale_?’  
  
‘You think we ought to leave it to him, then?’ Howard asked dubiously.  
  
‘No, because he was not there when this —‘ He indicated the picture of the large man’s face slackening in sudden fear. ‘happened. This interests me exceedingly.’  
  
‘Yes,’ Howard said dust-dry. ‘Me too.’ When Vanimórë said nothing he spread his hands. ‘Okay. Ever been to Venice during the Carnival?’  
  
Vanimórë offered a sweet smile, a quirked brow. ‘Don’t you know?’  
  
‘You uncanny son of a bitch,’ Howard hissed, leaning forward. ‘If I could keep you under surveillance 24/7, I would. You drop of the radar for months, reappear any-fucking-where with no record of flights, train tickets or rentals. But don’t think we haven’t noticed a pattern.’  
  
‘Do tell.’  
  
‘Ancient monuments, ruins. One of our newer operatives noticed. She’s a practicing Wiccan. I’d never heard of half the places.’  
  
‘Oh, very good. I hope you gave her a raise.’  
  
‘Fuck. You.’  
  
Vanimórë said soothingly: ‘I always show up for our meetings. And no, I have not been to the _Carnevale_ , but I did wear a costume to that fancy dress ball given by Héloïse Gauthier at Cap Ferrat.’  
  
‘Ah, Héloïse.’ Howard seemed to force himself to relax. ‘A most remarkable lady. She must be what..seventy, now? A pity she had to...retire.’  
  
Vanimórë did not believe for one moment that the imperious and brilliant _grande dame_ of intrigue had retired from something she considered an enjoyable hobby. Héloïse Fontaine, as she then was, had slid elegantly into the world of international espionage some fifty years ago as one born to it. Now much-married, incredibly wealthy, with contacts any intelligence service would envy, she still possessed a mind like a razor dangerously allied to a warm and deadly charm and remained, rather astonishingly, unless one knew her, on good terms with her former husbands.  
  
‘Seventy-two.’ _As if you did not know._ ‘Looks about fifty, and as redoubtable as ever. The costume is at Summerland. It will do.’  
  
Howard eyed him wryly. ‘All black, I seem to remember. With two swords. And a silver mask. Rather a plain costume for Venice, don’t you think?’

‘I am a very understated person,’ Vanimórë said, straight-faced.  
  
Howard snorted. ‘Of course you are. Fine, then. When are you going? We’ll keep Mr.Lowry under surveillance of course, but—‘  
  
‘Ah, four days. London first. I have a little surveilling of my own to do.’ He drank the excellent coffee, smiling benignly. ‘Just some background checking; I am sure you understand.’  
  
Howard glared at him. ‘I repeat: Fuck. You.’  
  
  
  
  


 

OooOooO

 

 

 

 

The westerly storm tumbled discarded coffee cups and food wrappers, whistled around the brilliantly lit buildings of Canary Wharf, clawing at the light-stippled river Thames. A few homeless people, out of place in this center of affluence, here because of that very affluence, and moved on whenever the police found them, tucked themselves into corners. Far above, distant as gods in their tall glass towers, expensively dressed men and women circulated, drank, ate, talked money that ran into the billions.

Vanimórë sipped champagne, and talked investment with a bluff individual whose jocular manner hid a definite wariness, but his eyes were mainly upon a young woman whom had not long entered. Her hair was an icy blonde (not, he knew, her true colour) and she wore a well cut dress with considerable grace.

She looked very different to the woman he had seen in the future, walking along the East Sands of St.Andrews in jeans, hair grown into its natural rose-gold, tousled by the North Sea wind, but the grey eyes were unchanged, the mannerisms, the deep sense of empathy and acute, even uncomfortable, feeling for injustice. As he watched from under downdropped lids, she flushed a little and bit her lip, took a hasty drink. The man she had been talking to grinned and said something that brought a sudden flash into her eyes. She shot back a reproof.

It was not that she was out of place; rather he felt that the people around her ought to become more _like_ her. The striving under the glamour was obvious to him: she did not eat enough; starving to fit into the designer suits and dresses, she worked too hard, and her chosen career, although she was good at it, was slowly but surely making her ill. Her eyes were a little shadowed under the make-up, too big for her face. Already, in her mind, was the pull of another life, pictures sent to her by her cousin: a small, ancient snowy city, the peace of old libraries, a ruined cathedral, cobbled streets.

_Not long, Claire._

Her head came up then, turned in his direction, and he stepped smoothly back, out of her view. She looked briefly confused, frowning.

_There is something else for thee, something deeper, far older, more worthy of thee._

Two of her colleagues came to her side, sweeping her past where he half-hid. They were boisterous, laughing, loud-voiced.

‘Lucien Steele,’ said a low voice not far away. ‘I’m sure it is. They say he’s a multi-billionaire but very — mysterious...’ All the rumours were there in those words, the tone, but no disapproval. He had money. It hid a multitude of possible sins. He laughed internally, drew his conversation to a close and left with one look back.

 

 

The next day, in Vanya’s apartment, he packed a bag with a few well-chosen clothes: ancient jeans, no-name trainers, a shirt gone grey, stretched sweat-shirt and stained coat. In a dim alley, he discarded his business clothes and glamoured his hair to a matted shag that fell over his face.

There might have been some objection to his placing himself in a prime spot for the homeless, but this was not the Vanimórë who had refused to use the power in his blood. A gentle nudge away was persuasion enough. He would, later, pass on his thick woollen coat to one of the unfortunates.

Settling himself, closing his eyes, he waited. It was already dark. Claire invariably worked long hours, even on a Friday.

She passed — or did not pass — with a _click-click_ of high heels, a waft of gentle perfume. Her empathy, her anger at the homeless who had fallen through all safety nets was as hot as flame with tears of frustration dammed behind it. As she walked quickly away, he picked up the coffee she had left and sipped it, his decision solidified.

 

 

 

 

 

OooOooO

 

 

 

 

Three million tourists poured into Venice for the culmination of the Carnival. Not all wore costume, but many enjoyed donning masks. At the other extreme were those who had prepared since the year before, wearing elaborate, gorgeous outfits and headgear.

Most of the guests at the Gritti were dressed in costumes from the city’s paramount artists. Silk, velvet, lace and plumes rustled, jewels winked, enormous headdresses nodded. Exquisite masks turned as Vanimórë made his way out of the hotel.  
The Vanimórë of this world had died naked of the slashing black tattoos that covered his arms and continued in a V shape down his back. Sauron, or anyone working for him, would not be looking for tattoos. Vanimórë had, therefore, no concerns as he donned his usual gear. It was, as Howard had remarked, very plain; it also fit him like a glove, and if he had to run or climb he wanted nothing to hinder him. The swords would be deemed props, as would the daggers. His only real concession to the _Carnevale_ was the beautiful polished silver mask that had been moulded from his own features and covered his face entire. From brow to crown it was decorated in delicate black lines of vines and stars and flowers, all powdered with gold. His eyes would go unremarked as coloured contact lenses, and his hair was drawn up in a high tail to flood down past his hips. For this time he could shed his glamour.

There was a faint mist rising into the cool air as Vanimórë left the Gritti and strode into the crowds. He had never bothered to change his usual manner of walking, and the carnival-goers simply moved out of the way, then stared after him. A few, more drunk or bolder than others, tried to take pictures, shoving iPhones mounted on selfie-sticks toward him. Having no time for rudeness, he affected to ignore them and walked on. He had no doubt pictures would be taken, but he had no intention of posing for them.

He avoided the canals as much as possible; it was not ideal to see (or sense) someone from a gondola or vaporetto and be unable to reach them quickly save by swimming or wading. (His deep, internal fastidiousness balked at the polluted water). If he had to, he would; it would not make him ill, but he would prefer not to. For one thing, it would draw unwanted attention.  
He opened his senses, feeling the hum of humanity, searching for the deep red _purr_ of Maglor’s Fëanorion soul — and anything else that might scratch at the skin of his mind.

The _Carnevale_ swirled around him as the misty dusk settled on the city; coloured lights glimmered on the waters, shivered on rich fabric, winked from gems. The air smelled almost like the cities he had once known, save for the pervasive fug of fumes: dense humanity, food, wine, perfume, stagnant water. Not Sud Sicanna though, and not Pasharr. There, the air had been spice-dry with desert heat.

Slowly, he made his way to the _Cannaregio_. Tintoretto, Wagner, and Titian had all loved this place with its narrow canals, alleys, graceful old buildings, tiny windows, and churches. There was just a chance....

And it was there he found Maglor’s follower.  
  
The man was not costumed; there was nothing remarkable about him at all. Fairly young, fairly slim, wore a long leather coat and expensive mask. His attitude, as much as anything, gave him away: He was alone, not part of a couple or a tourist group; he was not taking photos, neither was he joining in the festival atmosphere. he walked rather quickly as if determined not to miss an appointment.  
  
As Vanimórë watched from the gloom, he passed under the arches beside the thin gleam of the canal, shoulders hunched, head low.  
Vanimórë raised his eyes to the bridge that spanned the water — and there her saw Maglor. The shock went through him like lightning.  
  
_Oh, you magnificent bastard._  
  
He did not know if Maglor were wearing a costume made for him, or if Fëanor’s stupendous skill had allowed the armour to survive the years untouched.

Maglor was dressed as a Fëanorion warrior prince. With the mist glowing around him, he looked as if he had stepped out of the remote past, a figure of legend.  
  
The delicate mail shimmered; overlapping bands of mail gleamed. The great helm, curving inward and upward was surmounted by plumes that added over a foot to Maglor’s already impressive height. Upon his breast, incised and set with gems, bloomed the flaming star of the House of Fëanor.  
  
This was no less than a challenge. Had Vanimórë not said to Howard that ‘Mark Lowry’ did not run from anything? And this was one of the few times and places he could get away with such an outrageous announcement of himself, his heritage.  
  
It was _glorious._  
  
Vanimórë’s heart exploded with pride. He wanted to exclaim: ‘Bravo!’, to burst out laughing. There was a flash of silver eyes as Maglor tilted his chin in an oh-so-familiar, arrogant gesture; it showed the line of his jaw marble-hard as statuary. Under the line of the straight nose, his scrolled mouth was shut hard.  
  
He did not see Vanimórë in the shadows. His eyes were fixed firmly on the man — Jason Lord — who had stopped dead.  
  
_Oh yes, do be afraid,_ Vanimórë thought gleefully, viciously. _Melkor could not break Maedhros and, in another world, my father could not break this one. Thou hast no idea what thou art dealing with._  
  
The silver eyes rose, sought out the darkness, and Vanimórë stood absolutely still, hoping no stray lance of light would illuminate the silver mask. Foolish to wear it, but he had not expected to see Maglor, and what was there to see anyhow? Just a mask in a city full of them.  
  
Voices, a burst of laughter and two revellers stepped onto the little bridge. There were no truly quiet places during _Carnevale_. Abruptly, Maglor turned, his movement impossibly graceful, powerful, wholly Noldor. One hand to his breast, he bowed at the couple, stepped past them and vanished into the shadows of the _Callesèlle_.  
  
The woman, dressed _á la_ Madam de Pompadour, with a delicate gold half-mask, was clearly impressed by the ‘knight. She turned, spreading great hooped skirts of apple-green and gold, and swept a flourishing curtesy in the direction Maglor had gone. Her companion, Louis XV, resplendent in wine-red, bowed, then bent to whisper something in her ear. At her mellow, wicked laughter, Vanimórë smiled and stepped from his shadowy alcove.  
  
Jason Lord, or whatever his true name was, started forward, but more slowly than before. Madam and the King were almost blocking the bridge, but he clearly did not wish to lose his quarry. Absorbed in their low-voiced discussion, they either did not see him or were disinclined to move, but at last they turned back the way they had come, making for the same alleyway. It was not as narrow as some, but Madam’s enormous skirts almost brushed the walls.  
  
Vanimórë slipped in behind the man, silent as the mist that now curled and drifted into every corner. Abruptly, Louis XV turned, shoved the man back with a growled: ‘Watch who you’re pushing, buddy!’  
  
There was a sound like a snarl; the man fumbled under his coat as he lurched backward. Unfortunately, that brought him up against Vanimórë, who dragged his arm free. His hand held a wicked-looking knife. Neither Madam of the King evinced any shock at that or the practised move that caused him to drop it. Madam merely sighed, turned and drifted on down the _Callesèlle_ , plying her fan. Jason Lord cursed, teeth bared as he struggled. He smelled of sharp fear-sweat and something darker. Older.  
  
The King moved past Vanimórë back toward the entrance of the alley, and Vanimórë drove Jason Lord back against the wall, arm at his throat.  
‘Fool,’ he said, seeing in the dark stare what he had seen so long ago in the eyes of nine men whom had sought power and immortality and found only servitude beyond death. Compared to them it was faint, but creeping like a plague through the mind.  
  
The man started to giggle, high and insane.  
  
‘My master,’ he choked as Vanimórë’s arm pressed against his windpipe.  
  
‘Yes, your master. But first, I think I should like to see that ring of yours.’  
  
‘No.’ A whisper. He tried to squirm. ‘No.’ His mouth stretched in a fear and agony that went far deeper than Vanimórë’s tight hold.  
  
‘Oh, thou fool.’ Vanimórë slid one dagger free and pierced his heart.  
  
The eyes went wide. Vanimórë stood back as he slid down the wall, then knelt, drew the gold ring from his finger.  
  
There was a swish of silk. ‘Well, _chérie_?’  
  
‘Well indeed,’ he murmured. ‘Shall we go?’  
  
‘ _Mais oui._ ’ She gave a graceful shrug. ‘There seems little else to do here.’  
  
He laid a swift kiss on her painted mouth. ‘Nothing at all, lady.’  
  
King Louis came up beside them. ‘I think we’ve followed you across half the damn city,’ he said in a low but jovial voice. ‘And had to double back.’  
  
‘Drink?’ Vanimórë offered.  
  
‘Damn right.’  
  
‘We will dine at the Gritti,’ Madam pronounced with a sniff. ‘We have so much to talk about. How long has it been, _chérie_?’  
  
In a few minutes, the alley lay empty but for a body silently bleeding onto the stone.  
  
  
  
  


 

OooOooO

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set before all stories in the Summerland.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Question of Perspective](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19834105) by [Narya_Flame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narya_Flame/pseuds/Narya_Flame)




End file.
